


With Your Teeth in Your Mouth

by dancinguniverse



Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinguniverse/pseuds/dancinguniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Marty falls asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Your Teeth in Your Mouth

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [With Your Teeth in Your Mouth 于事无补](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589180) by [Virgil (alucard1771)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alucard1771/pseuds/Virgil)



** 1996 **

It’s a warm afternoon and lunch sits heavy in Marty’s stomach. He’s already pushed his seat as far from the wheel as it will go but he reclines it a few degrees more, letting his head roll back against the seat. There’s the slightest hint of a breeze, just stirring the warm air around the car. It’ll be hot in a few more weeks, but right now the weather is damn near perfect.

“She’ll go back to him. Ain’t no other way for her. Tied herself up with him years ago. Little thing like a murder charge ain’t gonna keep her away. All we gotta do is watch her and she’ll lead us straight back to him. People don’t change, Marty. Easiest thing in the world to predict.”

Marty grunts in vague agreement, his eyes sliding closed. Rust doesn’t really need his input. He likes having someone to argue with and on another day Marty might have indulged him. They could have had a whole debate about free will or the potential for change or some other bullshit, but Marty can’t find the energy right now, so he just lets Rust’s voice wash over him, low and steady as the tide. It’s comforting, in its way. If there’s something in this world Marty can predict, it’s that Rust Cohle has some damn infallible opinion for any occasion, but Marty knows now how to let that roll off him when he doesn’t feel like engaging.

“Marty.” Rust’s intensity is the quiet type, so on days like today it’s easy for Marty to tune him out and find him steadying instead of unnerving. Sure, Marty still dislikes the general idea of Rust, his obsessive theories and grim conversational topics, but the dogged competence he brings to the job can’t be beat, and ever since Reggie Ledoux, Marty’s got a healthy amount of respect for that. The warm air through the car window has Marty mellow and unfocused, and since he’s not letting himself get wound up by Rust’s bullshit, he finds himself vaguely pursuing the idea that it’s not just what Rust brings to the job, but something about his body language. Marty can’t quite pin it down because it’s not something he thinks about when he’s focused, but he likes Rust more when he’s fuzzed out like this, when Rust is just at the corner of his awareness. It melts together with his deceptively skinny frame and long fingers and the feeling in the locker room of his hands wrapped around Marty’s, in Texas of his body buzzing and hypersharp and right up in Marty’s space...

“Marty.” Rust’s hand slides onto his shoulder, and Marty stretches drowsily into the touch so that Rust’s fingertips slip beneath the collar of his shirt, rough and sunwarmed against his skin. Rust adjusts his grip and shakes him roughly, and Marty jerks upright with a start, blinking rapidly. “We got movement,” Rust says, giving him one brief, quizzical look before focusing back on their target, who is climbing into her car.

Marty drags a hand over his face, fumbles for his keys. “Right.”

* * *

** 2002 **

It takes three weeks, during which Marty can’t think about him without seeing red and feeling nauseous at the same time. This is a problem because he works, or at least he goes to work, and the empty desk across from his taunts him daily. Nightly, that role is filled by the stained walls of the shitty motel he’s calling home. It’s not the first time Maggie’s kicked him out but he knows it’s the last. But looking for a place of his own would be admitting that part of his life is over, and he shies away from the thought every time it arises. 

He wants to put his head in Maggie’s lap, let her soothe him and tell him it’ll be all right, but then he scares himself with how much he wants to hurt her, the way she’s hurt him. Because of some little girl who meant nothing to Marty, she had to break up their whole family. She took his daughters away, she even took Rust away, so Marty can’t have him either.  

She took him for real, took him forever, because Marty doesn’t know how a man forgives something like that. He gets it, gets what Maggie was after, and he knows it wasn’t Rust’s idea, but that doesn’t hardly matter. The empty space in his passenger seat is an open wound every time he forgets and glances over. But then the rage comes back and he’s viciously glad Rust quit, because he’d fucking kill him if he came back within arm’s reach. 

All of this tangles up inside Marty, choking him until it hurts to breathe. He spends days feeling winded. He goes to work, tries real hard not to fly off the handle at a careless slight or just because the printer’s jammed, drinks himself to sleep most nights. He calls Maggie a few times, furious or heartbroken or just mean, until she stops answering at all. He doesn’t trust himself to see her in person again. One night after a few more beers than is advisable considering he’s still driving, he finds himself outside Rust’s apartment, hammering on his door. There’s no answer. That’s all Marty fucking wants are some answers, so of course the place is silent. Fucking Rust Cohle. When you want him to be quiet, he won’t shut up, and the rest of the time, nothing. Nothing. 

Marty stumbles around the back, peering into the windows. It’s dark, and the blinds are all drawn. He makes his way back to the front of the house, trailing his hand along the siding for balance, and falls into his front seat. Rust has to come back eventually. Marty doesn’t know what he’ll say to him. Hell, maybe they’ll have another go at it. Sure as shit didn’t make Marty feel better last time, but that doesn’t mean another try would make him feel worse. Rust hasn’t been back to work since he quit, and Marty feels like he’s working down one limb. Which is what Rust fucking expects, so it’s not like Marty’s going to beg to have him back. Bastard can stay gone, for all Marty cares. He just wants some answers, is all. He wants Rust to give him some kind of explanation, just a goddamn excuse so he can shove it back in his face. 

Or maybe he won’t, because there has to be some reason for this whole mess, doesn’t there? Marty slumps down in his front seat, closing his eyes when the stars outside start spinning. Marty can’t stop worrying at it, like a loose tooth, and Maggie won’t answer his calls, and Rust never fucking said a word. He took what Marty gave him that day in the parking lot, like he didn’t have any feelings towards his own defense at all. He has to have some kind of explanation for Marty. Marty holds onto that as his breathing slows and the rest of his thoughts scatter off towards darkness. Rust wouldn’t have just left.

* * *

 

** 2012 **

“Rust.” Marty doesn’t think he can hold the handkerchief to Rust’s belly anymore. His arm is like lead and Rust’s guts shouldn’t be outside his body like that, and Marty doesn’t know what to do. He pulled Rust’s head into his lap because he couldn’t bear to see him laid out on the floor. He cups one hand gently around Rust’s face. He can feel Rust’s pulse, thready under his fingers. 

Marty’s pretty sure they’re both going to die here. He doesn’t know how you lose as much blood as they have and live. The flare went up hours ago, and no one’s come for them. Maybe it’s only been minutes. Marty doesn’t know. He was yelling, but that started to hurt too badly. Everything hurts. 

“Rust.” Marty doesn’t expect him to answer. He closed his eyes a while back and hasn’t responded since. Still, Marty can’t help but feel that anything he can do to tether Rust to this stupid, fucked up, terrifying world is better than the alternative. 

He can’t look at the body behind them. Bodies. They’re surrounded down here. Marty feels like the place is crawling with all sorts of ghosts, and maybe most of them should be grateful, but it doesn’t feel like that kind of place, that kind of story. Maybe there is no escaping Carcosa. Maybe this is it for them. Two more ghosts for the yellow king. He looks down at Rust’s face, brushes his cheek. Rust came back to finish their case and die. Marty signed on to finish their case and preferably not die. Rust was always more determined than Marty though, and Marty was always too quick to follow his lead. Marty just didn’t think it would land them here.  

He tries to say Rust’s name again, but it won’t come out. It’s funny, but his shoulder doesn’t really hurt anymore. That’s okay, because he can’t really see anything beyond the circle of Rust’s face, and that’s going dim now as well. At least neither of them will die alone. Marty tries to feel good about that, because he figures both their lives lately have given every indication that’d be the case, but he can’t quite pull it off. He tries to feel good about the fact that they got their man, but it’s hard to feel good about anything when the world is going dark and he can’t feel his hands on Rust’s body anymore. Mostly he just wishes they weren’t dying, but then he slips away, and he doesn’t think anything at all for a while.

* * *

 

** 2013 **

Rust has his shirtsleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned so his forearms and throat are bare. He has one of their case files spread across the coffee table and spilling into his lap, and he taps a pen absently against his lips as he reads over his notes. Marty figures they have an office so they don’t have to do this shit at home, but Rust never did learn what fun was so Marty lets him work in relative peace. 

Marty has the game on, Saints against Ravens, but the Ravens are up by three touchdowns at this point and Marty doesn’t think a rally is likely if they haven’t pulled it off yet. He slouches down, hands falling into his lap, and it leaves his right shoulder pressed up against Rust’s left. Rust scratches some additions into the notes in his lap and after a minute, lifts his arm to drape it across Marty’s shoulders. He never looks up from his work. Of course that leaves one of Marty’s shoulders digging into Rust’s side, so he slides down a little further until his head rests on Rust’s collarbone. He can feel the muscles in Rust’s chest shift when he reaches out for some new piece of the file, but not enough to jostle him. The Ravens kick another damn field goal and the game goes to a commercial. Rust’s fingers trace absent shapes on Marty’s arm. Marty lets his eyes slide closed, just until play starts up again. He wants to see the end of the game. He feels his breath match the rise and fall of his head on Rust’s chest; the commercials recede to a faint drone under the sound of Rust’s heartbeat. 

“Hey,” Rust’s voice pulls him back to himself, and Marty opens his eyes again. The news is on, which doesn’t make any sense, because there were still eight minutes on the game clock when he closed his eyes. 

“Come on to bed.” Rust slides out from under him, leaning forward to stack his papers and close his ledger, switch off the TV. Marty rubs his eyes, arches his back, and shoves himself to his feet. He catches Rust by the wrist as he stands and leans in, pressing a clumsy kiss to his jaw. 

Rust turns his head, his mouth finding Marty’s with the ease of long practice. Marty sways a little, still half asleep, and Rust smooths a hand over his back. “Come on,” he repeats, and guides Marty to the bedroom with a hand on the small of his back. Marty hits the pillow and he’s gone, and Rust turns off the lights. 

 


End file.
